Page 4

The hockey arena is a world I've deliberately avoided during my time at Westford—too loud, too crowded, too full of the over-the-top school spirit I've never quite understood. But here I am the next night, clutching my student ID at the will-call window, collecting the ticket Declan left for me.

"You're Wolfe's girl?" the attendant asks, eyeing me with naked curiosity.

I force a smile. "That's me."

"He left instructions to direct you to the family section." She points toward a cordoned-off area with cushioned seats near center ice. "The blue seats, not the general student section."

The family section. Where parents, girlfriends, and other important people in the players' lives sit. This is getting more real by the minute.

I make my way to the designated area, self-conscious in Declan's jersey, which hangs nearly to my knees despite my height. I'd paired it with leggings and boots, my concession to both the cold arena and the role I'm playing. My hair is down for once, falling in waves around my shoulders—another small detail that feels like a surrender to this new identity.

The section is already half-full with what appears to be an assortment of parents, girlfriends, and university officials. I hover uncertainly at the entrance, scanning for an inconspicuous seat where I can blend into the background. Mia offered to come with me, but I turned her down, hoping I could just come in and blend into the background, get through the game before slipping back to my dorm room. It becomes clear pretty soon that isn’t going to happen.

"You must be Ellie!"

A woman in her forties approaches, elegant in a cashmere sweater and pearls, her dark hair swept into a chignon. Something about her features—the high cheekbones, the shape of her eyes—strikes me as familiar.

"I'm Caroline Wolfe," she continues, confirming my suspicion. "Declan's mother."

My heart stutters. Declan never mentioned his parents would be here. "Mrs. Wolfe, it's nice to meet you."

"Caroline, please." She takes my arm as if we're old friends, guiding me toward the seats. "Declan's told us so little about you—just that you're brilliantly smart and keeping him on his toes academically."

The easy way she accepts my presence in her son's life catches me off guard. "He exaggerates," I say automatically.

"Not according to Professor Harmon." She pats the seat beside her. "Richard and I had dinner with him and his wife last weekend. He speaks very highly of your work."

Richard—Declan's father, I presume. The family resemblance is obvious in the distinguished-looking man on Caroline's other side, currently engaged in conversation with someone who looks like a university administrator.

"Declan didn't mention you'd be here," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral as I settle into the offered seat.

Caroline's smile turns knowing. "He probably wanted to spare you the parent interrogation. But don't worry, we don't bite." She leans in conspiratorially. "Though I must say, you're quite different from his usual... companions."

There's an undercurrent to her words I can't quite decipher—approval? Suspicion? "Different how?" I find myself asking.

"More substantial," she says after a moment's consideration. "Declan has always been drawn to... let's call it surface appeal. Pretty faces, popular girls, the easy choice." Her eyes, so like her son's, assess me with unnerving directness. "You strike me as someone with depth."

I'm saved from having to respond by the lights dimming and music blaring through the arena. The crowd roars as the team takes the ice for warm-ups, skating fast laps around the rink. Despite knowing nothing about hockey, I immediately spot Declan—something in the fluid confidence of his movement, the power in his stride.

He skates toward the glass in front of our section, eyes scanning until they find me. The smile that breaks across his face seems genuinely pleased, maybe even relieved, as if he'd doubted I would actually show up. He raises his stick in a small salute before rejoining his teammates.

"He looks focused tonight," Caroline comments. "That's good. He's been... distracted lately."

The game begins with a ceremonial puck drop, followed by a blur of action I struggle to follow. Caroline occasionally leans over to explain a call or play, her knowledge surprising me until I remember what Declan said about his NHL dreams. Of course his family would understand the sport he's dedicated his life to.

Despite my initial reluctance, I find myself drawn into the game's rhythm, the ebb and flow of tension as the teams battle for control. Declan is mesmerizing on the ice—fast, aggressive, commanding. This version of him—intensely focused, physically dominant—is yet another facet of a man I'm beginning to realize is far more complex than I'd allowed myself to believe.

During a break in play, Caroline turns to me. "Richard and I are hosting a small dinner at the house on Friday. Nothing formal, just a few of Declan's teammates and their families. We'd love for you to join us."

The invitation sends a wave of panic through me. A family dinner feels far beyond the scope of our arrangement. "That's very kind, but—"

"Declan already said you'd come," she interrupts smoothly. "Unless you have other plans?"

Trapped. "No, no other plans," I concede. "Friday would be lovely."

Her smile is triumphant. "Wonderful. I can't wait to get to know the woman who's finally captured my son's attention."

The woman who's captured his attention. If only she knew the truth—that our entire relationship is a charade, a mutually beneficial lie.

Guilt twists in my stomach, a sensation that only intensifies when Declan scores a goal in the second period and blows a kiss toward the family section. The crowd eats it up, and even Caroline looks pleased by the public display of affection.

"He's never done that before," she comments, eyes sparkling with amusement. "You must be special indeed."

By the time Westford secures a 4-2 victory, I'm emotionally exhausted from maintaining the facade. I consider leaving immediately, avoiding any post-game interaction, but Caroline's hand on my arm stops me.

"The players usually come up after they shower," she explains. "We can wait here."

Declan’s father, Richard, who never acknowledged me during the game, has disappeared somewhere, along with the important-looking man he was sitting with.

Twenty minutes later, Declan emerges from the locker room tunnel, hair damp from his shower, dressed in dark jeans and a button-down shirt. Several other players accompany him, but his eyes find me immediately, a smile breaking across his face.

He navigates the crowd with practiced ease, accepting congratulations and pats on the back, but his trajectory is clear—straight to where I stand with his mother.

"You came," he says when he reaches us, his voice pitched low beneath the ambient noise.

"I said I would." I'm unprepared when he pulls me into a hug, his body still radiating heat despite the shower. His lips brush my temple, lingering a beat longer than necessary.

"Thank you," he murmurs against my skin, and I'm not sure if he's thanking me for attending the game or for playing along with his mother.

He releases me only to slide an arm around my waist, keeping me close as he greets his mother with a kiss on the cheek. "Mom, I see you've met Ellie."

"We had a lovely time getting acquainted," Caroline confirms. "I've invited her to dinner on Friday."

Declan's arm tightens almost imperceptibly around my waist, his fingers digging into my hip. A subtle warning. A wordless plea.

"Friday," he says smoothly, but I catch the flash of panic in his eyes. "Looking forward to it."

His father suddenly reappears, handshake exchanged with a nearby university official concluding just in time for him to join our little circle. Richard Wolfe exudes the kind of old-money power that doesn't need to announce itself—it simply exists, demanding acknowledgment. His perfectly tailored suit and calculating gaze make me instinctively straighten my posture.

"There's the MVP," he says, clapping Declan on the shoulder. His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Impressive third period. Though that penalty in the second was unnecessary."

Declan's body tenses against mine. "Thanks, Dad," he says, his voice suddenly flat.

Richard's attention shifts to me, his assessment almost clinical. "And this must be Eleanor."

"Ellie," Declan corrects immediately.

"She prefers Ellie," Caroline adds at the same time, a curious alliance that makes me wonder how often they've needed to temper Richard Wolfe's natural severity.

"Ellie Gardner," I offer my hand, determined not to be intimidated. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Wolfe."

His handshake is firm, deliberate. "Declan tells me you're quite the scholar. Top of your class?"

"She's brilliant," Declan answers before I can, his voice taking on a warmth that sounds genuine enough to make my heart stutter. "Professor Harmon says her thesis on feminist reclamation in Gothic literature might be published."

The fact that he knows this—that he's been paying attention to my academic achievements—catches me off guard.

"Interesting," Richard says, in a tone that suggests it's anything but. "And what are your plans after graduation, Ellie?"

"PhD at Columbia, hopefully," I reply, feeling strangely like I'm being interviewed.

"Academia," Richard nods. "Admirable. Though not particularly lucrative."

"Dad," Declan warns, his voice dropping.

"Just making conversation," Richard replies with a dismissive wave. "Caroline has invited you to dinner Friday, I understand?"

"Yes, I'm looking forward to it," I lie, feeling Declan's thumb trace a small circle against my waist—his silent acknowledgment of my effort.

"Excellent. We'll have a chance to get better acquainted." Richard checks his watch. "We should go. Early breakfast meeting tomorrow with the foundation board."

Goodbyes are exchanged, Caroline's warm and genuine, Richard's perfunctory. As they walk away, I feel Declan exhale slowly, his body releasing tension I hadn't fully registered until its absence.

"Sorry about that," he murmurs, his mouth close to my ear. "My father can be..."

"Intimidating?" I supply.

"I was going to say 'an asshole,' but intimidating works too." The corner of his mouth lifts in a rueful smile. "You handled him well."

"You didn't tell me your parents would be here." I pull back slightly, but his arm remains firmly around my waist. "Or that I'd be expected at a family dinner."

"I didn't know they were coming," he says, and I believe him. "As for Friday..." He grimaces. "My mother texted during pre-game. I couldn't exactly say no."

I keep my voice low, aware of teammates and fans still milling around us. "Family dinners weren't part of our agreement."

"I know. I'll make it up to you." His eyes meet mine, unexpectedly earnest. "You were amazing tonight, Ellie. I owe you."

My name on his lips still jolts something inside me—a dangerous spark I need to extinguish before it grows. "Yes, you do," I agree, trying to sound businesslike despite our intimate posture. "So what's our next move?"

"Let me walk you back to your dorm," he says, nodding to his lingering teammates in farewell as he guides me toward the exit. "We should talk strategy."

The night air is sharp with cold when we emerge from the arena, the campus quiet under a blanket of stars. Declan shrugs out of his team jacket and drapes it over my shoulders before I can protest.

"I don't need—"

"You're shivering," he interrupts. "And it's what a boyfriend would do."

"There's no one around to perform for," I point out, even as I pull the jacket closer, surrounding myself with his lingering warmth and scent. Heat slides through my body, Declan’s closeness warming more than his jacket.

"Maybe I'm staying in character." His smile is soft, mischievous. "Method acting."

We walk in surprisingly comfortable silence for a few minutes, our breath fogging in the cold air. The campus is beautiful at night, historic buildings illuminated against the darkness, paths winding through carefully landscaped quads. In another life, with another person, this might even be romantic.

"You were watching," Declan says suddenly.

"What?"

"During the game. You were actually watching, not reading." There's a hint of wonder in his voice. "I kept looking for you between shifts, expecting to see your nose in a book, but you were following the play."

Heat creeps up my neck. "Your mother was explaining the rules. It seemed rude not to pay attention."

"And the goal?" He's watching me carefully, a slight smirk playing at his lips. "Did you cheer?"

I had. Embarrassingly loudly, in fact, caught up in the moment despite myself. "It was a reflex," I dismiss. "Everyone was cheering."

His laugh is warm, genuine. "Sure, Gardner. Whatever you say."

We stop at the entrance to my residence hall, a towering brick building that houses mainly seniors and transfer students. The moment feels suddenly weighted, the script for this scene unclear.

"So, Friday," I say, shrugging out of his jacket and handing it back. "What should I expect?"

"Nothing too intense. Dinner, conversation, probably some embarrassing childhood stories from my mother." He takes the jacket, fingers brushing mine in the exchange. "Wear something nice but not formal. My parents are traditional, but they're not stuffy."

"And what's our story? How long have we been together? How did it start?"

"We still keep it simple," he advises. "We met in Harmon's class. I asked you out after a few study sessions. We've been seeing each other about a month."

"And they're not suspicious about the sudden girlfriend? When you apparently haven't had a serious relationship before?"

Something flickers across his face—a shadow of emotion I can't quite identify. "Let me worry about that."

"This is going to blow up in our faces," I mutter, reality crashing back as I consider the web of lies we're spinning. "This was supposed to be a simple arrangement, and now I'm having dinner with your family."

"It'll be fine." He steps closer, one hand lifting to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture is becoming familiar, his touch lingering against my cheek. "Trust me."

Trust. Such a dangerous word. Especially when spoken by a man with ocean eyes and broad shoulders and more secrets than I know.

For a moment, everything seems to stop, and for another moment, I’m sure he’s going to kiss me. But that’s crazy.

"I should go," I say, stepping back from his touch. "I have an early morning tomorrow."

He nods, accepting the retreat. "I'll text you details for Friday." He starts to turn away, then pauses. "And Ellie? Thank you. For tonight. It meant a lot."

As I watch him walk away, his jacket slung over one broad shoulder, I'm struck by how quickly the lines are blurring—between fake and real, between performance and truth. This arrangement was supposed to be simple, clinical. A business transaction.

So why does my skin still tingle where he touched me? Why am I already dreading and anticipating Friday in equal measure?

I push these questions away as I climb the stairs to my room. Whatever complicated emotions are stirring, I need to remember the truth: this relationship has an expiration date. Three weeks. That's all.

I refuse to be hurt when the buzzer sounds and this game ends.

"You know what this room needs?" Mia asks, sprawled across my bed Friday afternoon as I frantically search my closet for something appropriate to wear to dinner with the Wolfes. "Alcohol. Lots of alcohol."

"It's three in the afternoon," I point out, holding up a navy dress, then discarding it with a frustrated sigh.

"It's five o'clock somewhere," she counters, rolling onto her stomach to better observe my sartorial crisis. "And anyway, we're celebrating."

"Celebrating what?"

"The fact that you've somehow landed the hottest guy on campus, fake or not." She grins wickedly. "Half the female population wants to murder you in your sleep."

"That's not funny." But it's not entirely untrue either. The past week has seen a distinct shift in how people treat me on campus—envious glares from girls who used to ignore my existence, sudden friendliness from people who've never spoken to me before, even a professor asking after "your young man" in a tone that suggested I'd somehow elevated my status by associating with Declan. It’s good to know misogyny is still alive and well.

"Anyway," Mia continues, pulling me from my thoughts, "we need to pre-game before your big dinner with the Wolfe dynasty. Take the edge off."

"I need my wits about me," I protest, though the idea of liquid courage holds some appeal. "Besides, I have reading to do after."

Mia rolls her eyes dramatically. "All work and no play makes Ellie a dull fake girlfriend."

"Fine," I concede, knowing she won't let this go. "One drink. After I figure out what to wear."

"Wear the green wrap dress." She points to the garment I'd dismissed earlier. "It's classy but not trying too hard. Brings out your eyes. Makes your boobs look great."

"I'm not trying to show off my boobs to Declan's parents!"

"Not for them," she says with exaggerated patience. "For him. Your fake boyfriend who looks at you like he wants to devour you whole."

Heat floods my cheeks at her blunt assessment. "He does not."

"Please." She sits up, suddenly serious. "That boy can barely keep his hands off you in public. I've seen how he touches you—the little gestures, the way his eyes follow you. Either he's an Oscar-worthy actor, or there's nothing fake about how he feels."

Her words stir something dangerous in my chest—hope, maybe, or the reckless desire to believe that some part of this charade has become real for him too.

"It's an act," I insist, as much to convince myself as her. "He's just good at it."

"If you say so." She slides off the bed, moving to my minifridge to retrieve a bottle of cheap wine we've been saving for emergencies. This apparently qualifies. "But from where I'm standing, you're both in serious danger of forgetting this isn't real."

I don't have a response to that uncomfortably perceptive observation. So instead, I take the green dress from its hanger and hold it up against me. "You really think this works?"